


Your Most Obedient and Affectionate

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Complicated Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Pneumonia, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: “The street in front of Washington’s residence was again cleared of traffic and carpeted with straw to mute sounds. With such precautions, rumors inevitably circulated about Washington’s perilous condition… Dr. McKnight hinted that there was little hope of recovery and that death might be imminent.” —Ron Chernow, Washington: A Life





	Your Most Obedient and Affectionate

**Author's Note:**

> IDK wtf this is but it's fine. 
> 
> Historians pretty much unanimously agree that Washington was suffering from pneumonia that developed out of a cold.
> 
> Historical inaccuracy: During the time that Pres. Washington was sick (spring of 1790, specifically mid May) Eliza was living in Philadelphia with Alex, but I needed her gone so she is. 
> 
> I mention a Hercules briefly. That doesn't refer to Hercules Mulligan. Hercules was the name of a slave that served as Washington's cook during the majority of his time as president.

Alex is hunched over his work, quill scribbling at a rapid fire pace when he hears two staff members outside his office chatting on their way out the door.

“They say the president is ill. I saw men putting down straw out on Market Street yesterday. I tried to ask that Humphreys fella about it, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. It’s all very hush-hush, if you know what I mean.”

“If Adams takes over, I’m quitting.”

Both men chuckle, and Alex instantly shoves his paper out of the way, quickly laying down a fresh sheet. As he writes, a sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead and his heart thuds hard in his chest.

 

_My dear Sir,_

_It pains me to hear of the worsening of your Illness & hope you will oblige me with a Visit to your Residence. My work on the Financial Plan has occupied a great deal of my time as of late, and I do hope you can forgive me for my lull in personal Communications. _

_With the truest respect & attachment   I have the honor to be Sir   Yr. most Obed. & Affect. sert_

_A. Hamilton_

 

Alex dispatches the letter, reiterating its urgent nature, and goes home with a heavy weight in his stomach and a tingling in his fingertips. 

The hour is unusually early, but he can feel a headache building at the base of his skull, so he stumbles to his bedroom, promptly drawing the curtains to submerge himself in darkness. 

_The president is ill_. 

The thought fills him with dread. Their infant country’s survival hinges on Washington’s leadership, as does Alex’s financial plan. Without Washington’s support, Alex’s plan is doomed to fail, swallowed up and beaten down by Jefferson and his goons.

Without Washington by his side, Alex doesn’t know what he would do. 

He needs Washington, always has. Ever since he first stepped into the General’s tent as a young, hardheaded soldier, Alex knew that he would always need Washington by his side. 

Some nights Alex lies awake and wonders if Washington still needs him too. 

\---

The next morning, Alex hurries to work, feeling a sharp pang of anxiety when he sees a letter waiting on his desk. He quickly tears it open. 

 

_My dear Sir,_

_I must confess my surprize at receiving such a personal Letter from you dear Sir—as most of our correspondence of late has been professional in nature. As to the extent of my Illness, I do confess to being indisposed with a bad Cold & tiresome cough._

_A visit from you would be most appreciated and enjoyed, tho' I may be unable to rise from Bed & am afraid I will be boring company for a Mind such as yours. As I tire easily, a Visit would be best received at midday._

_Yr Most Obed. & Affect._

_Go: Washington_

 

Alex lets out a loud, whooshing breath and sets the letter aside, quickly checking his pocket watch. He decides to work for at least a couple of hours before calling on the president, even though he’s filled with a nervous anticipation. 

Surely, if the president is able to write him, he must be doing better. 

At least, that’s what Alex tells himself as he tries to concentrate on the mess of numbers in front of him, writing out rapid arithmetic as he adds and subtracts the figures in his head. 

All too soon—or perhaps, not soon enough—it’s midday and Alex gathers himself up, shrugging on his coat. He tells Oliver that he’s going to see the president, jokingly warns him not to run the Treasury into the ground while he’s out, and makes his way to the president’s residence. 

He tries to keep his pace leisurely, but the thought of seeing Washington is making him feel almost giddy, and the anxiety over his weakened condition only spurs Alex to walk faster. A few people try to stop him and chat, but he just breezes past them in typical fashion. He’s not one to stand around making small talk with just anyone. 

True to the staffers' words, the ground outside the Morris House is covered in hay, and the road is restricted to only foot traffic. When Alex knocks on the door, a sullen and dour David Humphreys greets him at the door. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton,” he says politely. Alex nods and steps inside, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“The president is expecting me?” Alex asks coolly, hoping he isn’t betraying the crush of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Humphreys nods tersely and motions up the stairs. 

“He’s in bed right now, but he said to send you up when you arrived. Would you like anything? I can get Hercules to prepare you some tea or coffee.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you,” Alex says distractedly, already on his way up the stairs. When he reaches the door, he knocks hesitantly, and a man he assumes must be a doctor answers the door. 

“Mr. Hamilton?” he asks softly, his voice purposefully low. 

Alex nods and licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “The president is expecting me?” he says, though it comes out sounding more like a question than a statement. The doctor nods and steps aside, grabbing Alex’s arm before he can enter.

“You must be quiet. The president has come down with a terrible headache this morning.”

Alex swallows and nods. “Of course,” he whispers. The doctor nods his approval and releases Alex’s arm, allowing him to enter. 

The president is sitting up in bed, his face a stone mask, as stoic as ever, but Alex is taken aback by how emaciated he looks. He instantly hurries forward, suddenly breathless. “Mr. President,” he says, hating how shaky his voice sounds. “It’s Alex.” 

Martha Washington is sitting on the side of the bed, gently dabbing the sweat off of her husband’s face, but she abruptly stops at the sound of Hamilton’s voice. The president sluggishly blinks his eyes and smiles, though it looks more like a grimace. 

“Hamilton,” he says, his voice rough and gravelly. It’s so unlike the deep, soothing voice Alex is used to hearing from Washington that he almost cringes. 

“Hello Sir,” he says a little breathlessly, aware of the others in the room: Martha, a couple of doctors, and an aide. Washington seems to realize this at the same time as Alex, because he pats Martha’s arm and takes a labored, rattling breath. 

“I would like to speak to Colonel Hamilton alone, please,” he whispers. Martha presses a kiss to Washington’s forehead and nods before gathering her skirts and ushering everyone out of the room. 

Once the door is closed and the footsteps retreat, Alex collapses down on the edge of Washington’s bed and cups his cheek, gasping when he feels how hot it burns under his hand. The president’s tawny skin, usually a beautiful glowing brown, is pale and clammy to the touch, and he appears to be drenched in sweat, his shirt sticky and translucent where it’s plastered to his chest. 

“Oh George,” Alex whispers. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve come sooner. I had no idea.”

Washington closes his eyes and shakes his head, the slight clench of his jaw being the only outward sign of his pain.

“It’s okay, Alexander. I know you’re busy,” he rasps before breaking out into a wet, hacking cough. 

His entire body shudders and jerks from the force of it, and Alex is quick to hold his handkerchief under Washington’s chin as he coughs up a greenish mucous tinged with blood. Alex grimaces and carefully folds the handkerchief up, using the clean side to wipe off Washington’s mouth once the coughing passes. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Alex asks, distressed. “You’re shivering. Do you want another blanket?”

Washington shakes his head and takes another one of those pained breaths. “Don’t worry about me, darling.”

The pet name makes Alex’s chest tight and he almost starts to cry, remembering the way Washington—the General, _his George_ —used to cradle him at night, whispering sweet words into his ear when the war dreams kept him awake. 

“George,” Alex admonishes. “How could I not worry about you? I’ve _always_ worried about you.” 

Alex nervously gets the rag Martha was using before she left and resumes her work, trying his best to clean off the sweat beading on the president’s upper lip and brow. 

Washington’s eyes droop closed and he sighs, grimacing and blindly reaching up to rub his temple. His face stays tensed in pain for several long seconds before he relaxes again and lets his hand fall limply to his side. 

Alex’s hands flutter anxiously over Washington’s chest, aching to soothe him but not knowing how. He feels a frustrated whine building in his chest. He feels useless. 

Alex _hates_ feeling useless. 

When the president starts to cough again, Alex helps him sit forward and rubs his back, fumbling around to get the small bowl that he now realizes is there to catch the awful, bloody mucous that Washington continues to painfully cough up. 

He holds it under Washington’s chin and whispers to him like he does to Philip when he feels ill. 

_“You’re okay, George. I’m right here.”_

_“It will pass soon, love. Don’t worry.”_

When the fit is over, Alex carefully cleans the president’s mouth, shuddering when he sees the bright red blood staining the handkerchief. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Alex asks.

“Will you hold my hand?” 

“Of course, my love,” Alex whispers as he tangles his fingers with Washington’s.

“Thank you,” Washington breathes.

Alex nods and smooths a hand over Washington’s sweaty brow. “Are you in pain? You know you can tell me if you are. I don’t expect you to sit here suffering in silence.”

Washington smiles tiredly and gives Alex a tiny nod. “My headache has grown into a violent pain, and I feel as if my chest is being stabbed with a knife each time I cough.” Washington shrugs and coughs. “Though I suppose it could be worse.”

Alex nods and leans over to press a gentle kiss to Washington’s forehead, again taken aback by the inferno he feels burning under his skin. 

“Would you like anything to eat or drink? I’m sure I could get someone to send something up. You look much too thin, George.”

Washington shakes his head, pressing his lips together in a grimace. “My appetite left me awhile ago.”

“Would you at least like some water? I can help you drink it.”

Washington shakes his head again and weakly squeezes Alex’s hand. “Will you lie down and talk to me? I’ve missed hearing you whispering angrily in my ear.”

Alex chuckles and nods. “Of course. Let me lock the door,” he murmurs. 

Washington’s eyes sluggishly track Alex’s movements as he locks the door and takes off his shoes. 

He burns like a furnace in Alex’s arms, but Alex only moves closer, curling up with his chin nestled into the crook of Washington’s neck. 

“I have missed this,” Washington says. This close, Alex can hear the congestion in Washington’s chest, feel the tight, gasping breaths he pulls in with such difficulty, and he gently rubs Washington’s broad chest. 

“The last time we were afforded such privacy was at the Convention.” 

Washington hums and loops an arm around Alex’s waist. 

“Yes, and we used that privacy for much more fun activities than lying around talking,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. Alex smiles and affectionately nuzzles Washington’s neck. 

“After that first night I was so sore that I thought I was going to need a pillow to sit on,” Alex teases. 

Washington hums and nods before suddenly coughing. Alex cringes, the horrible sound amplified with his ear pressed against Washington’s chest. He sits up and reaches across Washington for the bowl, wincing when he sees the bloody mucous already dribbling down his chin. Several drops now stain his night shirt, the red spots sickeningly bright against the white fabric. 

“I’m sorry,” Washington manages to gasp in between awful, hacking coughs. Alex just shushes him and rubs his back, babbling about nothing—a new quill he bought the other day—in an attempt to take Washington’s mind off of the pain.

Once Washington catches his breath, Alex offers to change his shirt. It’s completely soaked in sweat and sticks to his skin. In typical fashion, Washington starts to protest, claiming to be unbothered by it, but Alex soon convinces him that a clean shirt might make him feel better. 

Alex can’t keep the smirk off his face as he gets up and gets a new shirt out of the chest of drawers against the wall—his rhetorical skills will always been his greatest asset. 

Removing the soiled night shirt is slow going, and Alex tries to be as gentle as possible as he tugs it off, not wanting to jostle Washington too much. Once he gets it off, he quickly attempts to mop some of the sweat off Washington’s body. 

The illness has clearly taken its toll: His soft stomach and hips feel more bony under Alex’s hands, but the raw power is still there. The thick, powerful thighs and strong arms are just as he remembers. 

As he methodically rubs the rag over Washington’s body, he occasionally lowers his head to press soft kisses into the feverish skin. 

Once he helps him dress again, Alex lowers himself back onto the bed and reassumes his position tucked against Washington’s side. 

“Does that feel any better?” he whispers. Washington nods, his eyes hooded. 

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, love,” Alex says solemnly. 

“How are the children?” Washington manages to ask after clearing his throat.

Alex chuckles and rubs Washington’s chest. “They’re well. I miss them terribly, but I write them often. You would like Philip. Only 8 years old, but I can tell he’s going to be amazing.”

“If he’s anything like his father, then I’m sure he will be.”

Alex flushes with the compliment and kisses Washington’s jaw. “I only hope that he has his mother’s patience and level-headed constitution. That may save him from making the same mistakes I’ve made.”

“I thought the great Alexander Hamilton didn’t make mistakes?” Washington teases. 

“Oh hush. Not everyone can be as modest as the great General Washington.”

Washington chuckles but soon chokes off into a cough. 

Alex repeats the usual process—holding the bowl for him and wiping the mess off of his chin. This time the handkerchief is noticeably more red, and Alex feels his stomach churn nauseatingly when he sees the way Washington’s lips are stained bright red, almost as if he’s wearing makeup. His handsome face is creased in pain, and Alex reaches over to cup his cheek. 

“What do you need, love?”

Washington makes a gurgling hiccuping sound low in his throat and grips Alex’s arm tightly. “Just keep talking to me. Please,” he manages to gasp, his eyes wide and flashing with the feverish intensity of a man trying to barter for his life with Death.

Alex nods fervently and starts to talk—it’s what he’s best at, after all—telling Washington about all sorts of things. He explains the arithmetic involved in his financial plan, relays some gossip he heard at the tavern, tells him a funny story about watching Jefferson fall getting out of his carriage. He whispers stories about the war, back when everything seemed hopeless, the only solace being curled up in each other’s arms. 

He talks and talks and talks, whispering as softly as he can after he notices Washington reaching up to rub his temple again. Then, when he runs out of interesting things to talk about, he tells Washington goofy made up stories that he would normally save for his children. And, because Washington might be dying and doesn’t feel well, he seems to listen closely, hanging off of Alex’s every word. 

Occasionally he dozes off only to be jerked awake by another horrible coughing fit, and Alex is there, ready to soothe him through it. 

Every time it happens, Washington weakly insists that he’s fine and doesn’t need Alex fussing over him, but Alex has always been able to see right through his stoic countenance, so he just shushes him and whispers sweet words in his ear.

_ “Let me take care of you, George. Please,” he begs.  _

And because Washington has never been able to deny Alex for very long, he eventually relaxes back down and lets Alex cradle him against his chest. 

There’s finally a lull in Washington’s coughing and he manages to fall into a fitful sleep, his face pinched in pain. Alex continues to talk to him, running a hand up and down his side. 

He’s almost asleep himself when there’s a knock on the door, and he jumps, startled. Washington grunts but stays asleep. 

There’s another knock on the door and Alex scowls. 

“Yes?” he hisses, not wanting to raise his voice in fear of waking Washington. 

“Colonel Hamilton, it’s getting late, and Lady Washington wanted to know if you were planning on staying for supper.”

Alex swallows. He hadn’t meant to stay so long, but the curtains are drawn to keep out the light, and his watch is laying forgotten in his jacket pocket. 

_I have so much work left to do. I’ve skipped an entire day!_

“I, uh, no,” he finally stutters. “I have work to attend to. Tell Lady Washington thank you and inform her that I’ll be down soon.”

“Of course, Sir.” 

The footsteps retreat and Alex sighs, glancing down at Washington’s sleeping face. His face is shiny with sweat and Alex can see his jaw twitching in pain. He briefly debates waking him to say goodbye, but the bags under his eyes look like two angry, black bruises, so Alex simply decides on pressing a kiss to his forehead before slipping out of the bed. Washington makes another one of those sickening gurgling sounds and Alex winces. 

He quietly slips his shoes and coat back on, pausing at the door to look back at Washington. “I love you, George,” he whispers before leaving, tears suddenly burning hot on his cheeks. 

\---

When he gets home, he immediately pours himself a glass of whiskey and sits at his desk, setting down a fresh sheet of paper and dipping his quill in ink. 

 

_My dear Betsey_

_I am freshly returned home from a long visit with the President and must confess a grave fear for his life. He is quite unwell—his Breaths labored and painful, a wet Cough that sends him into awful fits and great pains in his chest and head. I hope you & the children will pray for the General as he is very dear to my heart. _

_I miss you and the children greatly and wait with great anticipation for your arrival in Philadelphia._

_Love to your Mama, Peggy & the rest of the family _

_Yr. ever tender_

_A. Hamilton_

 

Alex stares at the letter and starts to laugh, a sad sound that chokes off into a sob that burns in his chest and throat. He suddenly finds it painfully humorous how easily he can write about one of his loves to the other. 

_I am a duplicitous fool. A liar._

Even so, despite his wretched behavior, he folds the letter and scrawls out the proper postage on the envelope. 

He sends it the next morning before he goes into work and throws himself back into his financial plan, trying not to think of the sickening way the mucous and blood gurgled in Washington’s throat or the pained look on his face whenever he started to cough. Instead, he forces himself to think of numbers—long lists of debits and credits, using Jefferson’s smug face to motivate himself. 

And if his mind wanders to the quiet room at the Morris House on Market Street, he just shakes his head in an effort to dispel the image of his (beautiful, beloved) George lying in pain, drenched in sweat and doubled over by painful coughing. 

_I am so sorry George_. 

\---

A week later, Alex comes into work to the sight of a letter waiting on his desk. He eagerly tears it open, his heart in his throat. 

 

_My dear Sir,_

_I am happy to report that my Health is much improved since I saw you last. My Fever broke on May 16th & I continue to feel better each day. I still tire easily and must remain in Bed but I am hopeful this Malaise will soon pass. _

_Your last Visit brought me a great deal of joy, dear Sir, and I do hope that you will oblige me with more personal Visits soon. Surely my Death Bed is not the only way to draw you to my side!_

_Lady Washington will be returning to Mt. Vernon once I am well & I do hope you will join me for Supper to offer me some companionship in her absence. My Residence is often filled with visitors seeking an audience with the President but these visitors do not offer me the kind of Company that you are apt to give me._

_Send love to Mrs. Hamilton & the children._

_Yr Most Obed. & Affect._

_Go: Washington_

 

Alex rubs the tears out of his eyes and tenderly smooths his hand over the paper. 

Next month he pays a visit to Market Street while Martha is away, and to his dismay, he has to sit on a pillow during the Cabinet meeting the next day. Jefferson cracks a joke about it. Washington meets his eyes and smirks. 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my best with the letters okay the 18th century was weird af (low key did a ridiculous amount of research. it was fun)
> 
> George is never sick in any fics so I wrote one myself b/c who doesn't love Alex taking care of George :') 
> 
> Washington literally did almost die in May 1790 (he also almost died the year before yikes). 
> 
> Everyone should read Washington: A Life. It's amazing. (I've read several books abt GWash and it's still my favorite)
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
